On the way to Gaza. Last Boat Out of Port

September 17, Wednesday

The last 96 hours have been many moving parts without moving. We were going. Then we weren’t and only one member from our team was going. Then he said he wouldn’t go if the team wasn’t going so the powers-that-be (in so far as you are supposed to have “powers-that-be” in a lateral movement) rethought.

I spent Sunday taking stock of food on Mendi Reincarnated (more on this later) and figuring what other foods may be needed. I returned to our lodging in the afternoon, had a nap and woke up pretty late to meet one of our party. I left my phone in the hotel because I just wanted a wind-down chat without constantly looking at a device. That one hour absence front my phone which had been silent all along resulted in an unforeseen missed opportunity.

I got back to my slave master (phone) to many missed calls. It turned out in the space of an hour, there was a demand for three South African women on a boat and I, voted top of the list by the team, had been unavailable. So Team Members Two and Three, often together, went. They had even tried calling another team member but she had surrendered and was at the airport so they brought in an Irish lass as a third. Listen. There are passports that I don’t mind losing my space to in a solidarity movement. Ireland is one. Brazil and any Hague Group nationalities are others. I would have cried inside if this loss had been to any other EU passport or a Northern American one because what even?

A South-African stocking boat

After this though, content with what happened, I mentally prepared to be part of the support on the ground but being at sea was still first option.

So in the morning, having been told there was a boat with three of our South African names on it at Sidi Bou Said, off we went early in the morning with another fourth who hoped to get a place only to be told on arrival that the boat was, in fact, at Gammarth. We found the boat, sure enough, and immediately left our luggage on that boat. Not for us risking having someone take our place in front of our eyes. And then we walked to the South African boat that was being repaired. The stocking boat of the day before. Here we assisted in spite of being warned by a boat whisperer that it would unlikely be ready to depart even on the last possible day - Wednesday. Many seemed to have some discomfort with the captain and doubted whether he had any desire to leave but I immediately liked him. Quick to anger, quicker to forgive and quickest to laugh. The old man of the sea with an artistic soul. I could also see why he would cause concern. A lot of what he said in jest was taken seriously, a place I have been to all too often. But beneath the jokes lay a man serious about his responsibility of human beings. A man who would not compromise on any security issues no matter what “other boats” did. Someone anxious to leave said, “we will get there, if Allah wills it,” he responded, “Allah asks that you use your brain.”

The VIP of the SA delegation came through to the boat... Yes yes. No VIPs. Only lateral movement... and had lunch with us. I was certain all problems would be solved then. Then the VIP left on another boat early evening and we, we went back to our lodging despite assuming we would have slept on the Mendi Reincarnated. We were a security risk and the coast guard wanted us out. Tuesday played out much like Monday with more work on a boat I had been calling a reincarnation of Mendi since I first got on it but with, hopefully, a never-sink attitude¹.

As a matter of record, at home, Fred Khumalo’s Dancing the Death Drill is now in Joburg Theatre.

“Damning empire for lies told and genocide funded”

Aboard that ship, were South African ancestors, disrespected while servicing empire. Mendi Reincarnated, is one of the boats that are part of the flotilla that’s hoping to bring humanitarian aid to victims of empire and so in essence, damning empire for lies told and genocide and starvation funded.

A bit more hopeful and having been told by some seeming expert that there was absolutely no hope on the original boat we had assumed we would depart from, I moved my clothes to Mendi Reincarnated. All seemed set except for a sea trial. When we left on Tuesday night, we were hopeful but also told ourselves if nothing happened by midday, we would go back home. At 11am, we got a call asking where we were. The sea trial had been successful. There was space for two of us on Mendi Reincarnated, as we had been told since two days before, and we were set to sail. One of us had flown back home today and another was accompanying us to ensure we really left.

We didn’t leave by midday.

Messages from Gaza

We set sail at dusk with the hope that we will catch up with the rest of the flotilla in the next 72 hours.

Aboard, I could finally respond to a direct message from someone from Gaza. Post announcing my being part of the flotilla, they had sent a direct message to me. We had chatted. About our mutual hopes for this flotilla. About his and fellow Gazans’ Sumud. About Empire. About the failure of global leaders, their enslavement to capital versus the push from regular civilians, tens of millions across the globe for them to do better by the people of Gaza, Sudan, Congo, Haiti and the rest of the world. To put humanity over profit.

But not knowing whether I was still sailing, I had stopped responding because I did not want to lie. But I was also aware of how uncertainty can destroy hope. So I said nothing. Now aboard, I could finally respond to a message from a Gazan called Sulaiman updating me on conditions on the ground in Gaza. And it was and is dire. The urgency of the humanitarian corridor for aid is as dire as ever but even at it’s darkest, hope remains.That the siege will be broken but beyond that, that a lasting peace for Palestine and much needed justice shall be served in the not too distant future. Failing Gaza and all of Palestine is not an option as failure is the death knell for humanity.